Grace
by HideYourCrazy
Summary: "True, we didn't love each other, but neither of us required, desired, or deserved to be loved anyways." Fem!Greg, now Gracie. Grace and Mycroft stay together and yet, feel nothing. They are barely comfortable, barely tolerable, and prone to public - and private - arguments. So why do they stay together? Eventual Mystrade, slight Johnlock. Gracie's POV, but Mycroft might worm in ;)
1. Chapter 1

_**So I'm taking the Greg/Mycroft ship and running with it. In this, Greg is a woman named Gracie. Still a detective, still works with Sherlock. I am also portraying Mycroft as - and Grace as well - slightly younger and less pear-shaped than in the show. He might not even look like that at all, I don't know. If I find a suitable picture of someone who should be Mycroft, I shall make Gracie and him the cover photo. **_

_**I had this idea in the shower. And like most good ideas, the bulk of it was gone when I sat down to write it. I hope its still ok. **_

_**How about I let you read it now? **_

* * *

To say that my life hadn't been shaped by the presence of the Holmes brothers would be wishful thinking.

Like it or not, I will be remembered as the detective that Sherlock Holmes could "tolerate." And whatever, I'm not selfish. I can live with that. I liked Sherlock just fine. His straightforward, no B.S. attitude was refreshing - even comical at times. He always put the other detectives in their place. Hell, he put me in my place. And he solved a lot of cases. Which almost made my job easier. Almost.

And no matter what he says, or how many times he rolls his eyes and mutters, "Obvious," Sherlock Holmes liked me just fine too.

John Watson was fantastic. Really a stand-up guy. I don't know how he put up with Sherlock long enough to live with him but -

Okay, no. That's a lie. Everyone knows _exactly_ how he was able to put up with Sherlock. (Insert suggestive comment here.)

Anyways, we went on a couple of dates a while back - John and I, not Sherlock and I - but it's very hard to get it on with a guy who screams his flatmate's name instead of yours...Even though I told him it was fine (repeatedly), he was so embarrassed he avoided me for a week. It was hilarious.

But Mycroft. Oh, how I hated that man! He was cold, uncaring, heartless, ruthless - he destroyed lives for a living! But in the end, we deserved each other.

* * *

We met at a gala intended to get the police and politicians on the same page. I had to go. 20 minutes into the speeches, I ducked out into the hall to snog with the guy next to me. He was cute, but dumb as a doorknob. I don't know how in hell he became a detective. Nonetheless, we were both having a good time (well, I was), when from behind him came a loud "Ahem."

We turned around and found a smug politician with an expensive suit and an umbrella gazing lazily at us. His face contorted into a very frightening falsely apologetic smile. He promptly turned to glare at my snogging partner until he excused himself and walked back to the room, looking over his shoulder, confused. I straightened my dress as I watched him leave. He walked into a wall. The politician smirked.

"Mycroft Holmes," he introduced the minute what's-his-name was out of earshot.

I begrudgingly shook his hand. "Grace -"

"- Lestrade. I know." I frowned. The corners of his mouth curved upward again, and I winced. His general creepiness suggested his intent to sew my mouth and eyes shut and have sex with my corpse. I shivered and inched away from him. "I have a favor to ask you."

I shook my head immediately. Not happening. "Sorry, but no. I don't do favors for politicians."

He smiled like a parent does when they give pie to their begrudging child as a peace offering, and know they'll take it though it was angrily denied the first time.

"You haven't even heard my proposal."

"And I'd rather not, if it's all the same to you," I shot back.

"It's not." I couldn't very well walk away from him - he might have me shipped to who-knows-where - so I settled for glaring lightly until he told me his request. "Very shortly, a tall man with black hair and a trench coat will show up at one of your crime scenes, and be able to tell you exactly what happened. You will want to arrest this man. I am here asking you not to."

I gaped. "You are asking me not to arrest a suspect."

"No - he is not a suspect. He won't even be connected to the case at all. He will just show up and solve your case." The parent-to-a-child tone was in his voice again, and I gritted my teeth.

"Look, Mr. Holmes, I don't know what are game you are playing at -"

"I assure you, Ms. Lestrade, I have my hand in many games, but this is not one of them."

I ran my hand through my hair - and remembered it was slicked back into a bun. "Let me see if I understand. An unrelated man will show up at a crime scene and solve a case. He isn't a suspect, and not related to the scene or victims at all, but is just somehow all knowing."

"Correct. But it will not be just any crime scene - rather, _your_ crime scene." He smiled slyly once more, as if he knew my thoughts and deemed them hilarious.

I said it anyway. "What?! Why me?!"

"Believe me when I tell you I haven't the foggiest idea. But he chose you, and there was no changing his mind." He did a little head dip, and turned on his heel. "I'll be in touch," he told me over his shoulder.

"Wait!" I shouted, a little too loudly. "What's his name?"

Mr. Holmes stopped, and turned back towards me ever so slightly.

"Sherlock Holmes."

* * *

_**Ok, well, I hope you liked it! There shall be more, even if I don't get great responses. :P Leave a comment, suggestion, snide remark, cookie...Whatever floats your boat.**_

_**Thanks for reading! :)**_


	2. Chapter 2

**_I own nothing but my laptop and my ridiculous imagination!_**

**_Hey, guys! _**

**_So, just real quick, I wanted to thank my wonderful guest reviewers! Your comments were so sweet and I greatly appreciated the cookie! Like seriously. I was STARVING. Anyway, I just want to apologize for where this chapter went. I totally deviated from my plot and I'm upset and stuck in a hole...But I like it so, you know, what's a girl to do? _**

**_SHUT UP._**

**_Alright. Carry on. _**

* * *

As promised, Sherlock Holmes showed up at a murder scene two days later. He called me an idiot four times, thoroughly ignored my captain, commandeered evidence, sniffed walls (floors, people, vases, clothing), offended every person at least twice_,_ yelled at the victim's crying mother, kicked open a door, dumped _all_ of the victim's anti-psychotics on the bathroom floor, and then declared that the murderer was a recovering alcoholic suffering from bipolar disorder, whom the victim had pissed off on the train three days prior. He spun on his heel and left the crime scene, yelling that he would email the female tomorrow with evidence for an arrest. I assumed that meant me.

No one knew what to think.

I had informed Captain Gregson of my discussion with Mycroft Holmes the day after said discussion. He had reached out to his buddies at other agencies, and found that Mr. Holmes did, in fact, have his hand(s) - feet - and quite possibly umbrella - in all sorts of 'games,' 'bowls,' or whatever the hell the metaphor was - though no one seemed to know exactly what it was he did.

We arrested Sherlock anyway. "We don't do favors for politicians," Captain Gregson told me firmly.

"That's what I said, sir."

By the time I dragged Sherlock into interrogation, the whole department had learned about my "fanatic," as they named Sherlock. I didn't think that was what he was. Weren't "fanatics" essentially "fans?" Sherlock had looked at me with disgust. He was most certainly _not_ a fan of my work. So what was he then?

"How did you hear of the crime scene?" Gregson demanded. Sherlock stared at me as if Gregson wasn't worth his time.

"I listened to the police scanner." He smirked. I almost did too.

"Did you know Harry Angelo?" I kept my voice and posture aggressive, but I could tell he didn't care.

"No." His chin raised haughtily as he waited to rebut my next question. But I what was I supposed to ask him? What were we accusing him of? He was terribly suspicious, I admit, but nothing about the case made sense. Why had he returned to the scene with dozens of witnesses - law enforcement officers, at that - if he had killed the victim? It seemed quite silly.

On the other hand, he had touched practically everything. Maybe he wanted to make his DNA seem less suspicious?

Had he been wearing gloves?

But his act - if it had been that - was terribly clever, and left me terribly confused. Why would he leave DNA in the first place?

A crime of passion, then. But -

We couldn't find a connection between Holmes and the victim. A hit, then.

Gregson cleared his throat, waiting for my question. But what would I ask Holmes? I had so many questions, and none at all.

"Why did you have your brother ask me not to arrest you? You had to have known we'd do it anyway."

His jaw clenched, his mouth scowled, and his eyes narrowed. "Fatty is an idiot."

At first I thought he was talking about me. Then I wanted to laugh.

"Excuse me?" Gregson growled.

Holmes rolled his eyes. "I did not ask Mycroft Holmes to speak with you. I let him know my intentions merely as a formality, so he would not interfere when his minions found out what I was doing," he spoke as if to a child, and Gregson did not appreciate it. He took a deep breath and I braced myself for the surge, when suddenly the door flew open.

"Don't say another word," a thick, balding man ordered Holmes before turning to Gregson. "I have the right to speak to my client in private," he insisted smugly. Alfie stood in the doorway behind him, angry and bewildered.

Gregson was furious and everyone could tell. "What the _hell_ was that?!" he demanded as soon as the door closed.

"Sir, he just walked right in here," Alfie protested.

"And you thought you'd just be so kind as to show him where we were?!"

"No, no!" Alfie held up his hands. "He just walked right in! Like, straight to the interrogation room! I barely got a word in - he just buzzed right by!" I got a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, and I could tell Gregson was thinking the same thing. We have 5 interrogation rooms here at New Scotland Yard, and Holmes is hidden in the farthermost.

Gregson's face hardened and he stalked into the busiest area - filled with desks, incessant ringing phones, loud shouting, busy people - and whistled.

Everyone fell silent, save the phones. "I want this place swept for bugs and all cameras dismantled and checked. And then I want you to look _again. _It seems we have an enemy in the government."

The chatter started up again, slowly, until Gregson turned his back - and then it grew impossible.

"Sir?" Alfie looked quite lost, and a little frightened.

"How did he know where Holmes was?" Gregson demanded. "He couldn't, that's how! Not unless someone told him. And no one here would. It must have been Lestrade's politician spying on us!" He was livid, and I could tell his logic made little sense to Alfie, but I understand. Only -

"He's not _my_ politician, sir," I protested, because he most certainly was not.

Gregson frowned at me. "Of course he is. Just like his obnoxious brother is _your_ nutcase."

"That hardly seems fair."

"I suppose not, but it is the truth. Goodness, Lestrade. Why must you attract such strange suitors?" he scolded, trying to act cross. I just smiled.

"I don't know, sir. I just don't know."

* * *

**_GRUMPY GREGSON. So yeah, I'm sort of mashing Sherlock and Elementary, I suppose. Alfie is an OC, and he will most definitely be in further chapters. _**

**_So please leave me a comment because I adore them! Thanks for reading! _**


	3. Chapter 3

**Hiya!**

**First things first:**

**DID YOU SEE THE NEW SHERLOCK EPISODES THEY ARE BEAUTIFUL ARE THEY NOT. **

**Of course, we can't post spoilers publicly, but if you would like to talk about anything Sherlock related, or anything at all for the matter, feel free to PM me, yeah?**

**Anyways, sorry about the long update time! I wanted it to be done by Christmas, but that didn't happen...Sorry again! I really could not figure out where I wanted it to go. I mean, Chapter 2 apparently had a mind of its own, so then Chapter 3 was all like "Um, hi? What am I supposed to be doing?" I even had Mycroft narrate this chapter at one point. Excuses. I'll try to have the next one up in a few days as an apology, alright?**

* * *

In the end, we found 6 cameras and a couple dozen listening devices. Gregson turned a few different shades of red, and spent half an hour shouting into four different phones. At the same time. He's very popular amongst the politicians.

Sherlock Holmes refused to speak after his lawyer, who's name was (apparently) Angus Cocks, arrived, which of course, pissed Gregson off to no end. We kept him (Sherlock, not the lawyer) in a holding cell overnight.

The next morning, I dragged Sherlock back into interrogation and sat in silence with him and Angus Cocks, whom I found to be more annoying than Sherlock himself.

"This is a blatant waste of both my and my client's time," he insisted.

"You are free to leave, Mr. Cock."

"_Cocks._" He snapped through gritted teeth.

"My apologies," I deadpanned, still staring at Sherlock.

After ten more minutes of silence, Cocks spoke again.

"My client is a consulting detective," he huffed almost desperately. "He has consulted before."

"We have found no records of -"

"It was in America."

I waved my hand, and hoped that whoever was behind the glass was calling for records.

After a while, I spoke again. "A consulting detective, Mr. Holmes? I've never heard of one."

He looked at me, finally. "I invented it. I am the first, so of course you've never heard of one."

I grunted, unimpressed. "So, do you just Google the victim, and hack medical records and such? The sniffing and breaking is all for show then. No one could be that good."

He snorted. "I could." I raised an eyebrow.

"I doubt that very much." He raised an eyebrow in response, sitting straighter, and frowning, as if insulted.

"I expand on my powers of observation, which the masses, including you, Detective, neglect. You all could read people like I do, if you would only focus." He spit as he enunciated, leaning closer to me. "If you would just listen, look, taste, smell, _pay attention._ You fill your brains with meaningless information."

I shot him a wry look. "You are telling me that you can know everything about my victim from the crime scene alone, only because you don't watch comedy television?"

He huffed, frustrated, which was, of course, what I wanted. My partner, Jamie Scout, walked into the room at that moment, and strutted around silently, menacingly. He finally settled for leaning in the corner closest behind Sherlock. Sherlock ignored him, as I knew he would.

Sherlock steepled his fingers and pressed them against his lips, contemplating me. I mimicked the action, and he breathed out through his nose. "I'll show you," he said finally. I raised an eyebrow, and he leaned forward, his elbows now on the table. He closed his eyes for a long blink, and snapped them open, squinting at me. I snorted. What a drama queen.

"America," he blurted finally.

"It's a continent," I blurted back. He frowned. I smothered a smile.

"No - you - you spent a great amount of time in America. Your accent has gotten lazy." I dipped my head in acknowledgement. "Recently started guitar-" I wiggled my fingers, brandishing the telltale calluses. "- though how you manage to find time alludes me; you barely have time to brush your hair in the morning."

"Those three were easy," I told him. He squinted some more.

"One, two, _three_ cups of coffee this morning already - that is your fourth," he nodded at the mug in front of me. "Which furthers my deduction regarding America - coffee is more popular in the States - but you obviously spent the time there in adulthood or your late teenage years..."

"Still easy."

"Weapon. Inside your right boot." I frowned. "Gun? No, knife. Good idea. You seem to be the type to get into fights: left temple, chin, right shoulder, bilateral knuckles, left knee..."

I smirked. His frown deepened. "No...I'm not wrong..." He closed his eyes for a bit. "Oh. Of course. The right shoulder." His eyes blinked open, glowing. "Not a new injury, as I assumed. When you shrugged yesterday - how did I miss that?! Old injury - 5+ years ago - required extensive physical therapy and you still -" He froze, scanning my posture again.

"Ah. Abused as a child. Very likely an injury from that. Your shoulders; it's a defensive mechanism, as if you are expecting me to attack you," he told me when I opened my mouth to ask. "You are too young to have learned that from your police work..." He smiled - _smiled_. "You are young. Very young for a detective. Much younger than the unremarkable idiot sulking in the corner." Jamie huffed. "You are...interesting."

I leaned forward and peered up at his face - did I mention how bloody tall the idiot was? At least 6'4", which was more than a foot taller than me. "Is that why you picked me then? Because I'm interestingly young?"

He stared back. "Yes. You transferred here a year and a half ago from the States, and are already a detective, at 25 years, no less. Remarkable." I frowned. He was staring too much. "Ahem." He leaned back. "Not as remarkable as my achievements, of course, but for an ordinary, it is interesting. In conjunct, you have all the qualities I wished for."

"I told you, Gracie," Jamie chuckled. I stuck my tongue out at him. Out of the corner of my eye, Cocks held his chin up haughtily, looking even more offended by my lack of decorum.

Sherlock tilted his head. I smiled. "You and your brother. My secret admirers. They call you my fanatic, and your brother: my politician."

Sherlock blinked rapidly, frowned, opened and shut his mouth. "Absurd," he finally blurted.

"Is it?" Jamie smirked, and Sherlock glared at him in the mirror.

"Though I cannot speak for _him_, my interest in you is purely practical," he insisted.

"Him?" Jamie asked.

"Mycroft," Sherlock and I said in unison.

Jamie grunted.

"Practical?" I asked.

"Well, what are these _qualities_ that make Detective Lestrade here such an excellent _match_?" He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, and I shot him a look as Sherlock drew a deep breath to list my apparent qualifications.

"Focused. Driven. Not as daft as the rest of your lot. Female. Suspicious. You have proven yourself to be above normal, and therefore I have chosen you for my accomplice."

"Hold on!" I exclaimed. "_Female_?! Why is that a requirement?!"

Sherlock tilted his head. "They are more susceptible to my charms." And he smiled then, his apparent charming smile. I have to admit, he was sort of adorable. I tried to remember his age from his file. _20, 21? Eh._

Jamie snorted with laughter. Sherlock frowned some more. "What?" he spat through gritted teeth.

"Gracie's - Gracie's gay, mate!"

Sherlock frowned even deeper than I thought possible and scanned me again. I smirked and shrugged as if to say, "What can you do?"

"No," Sherlock said decisively, shaking his head. Jamie slowly stopped laughing.

"What?" Jamie moved to stand behind me, a hand on the back of my chair, that dumb smile still on his face.

Sherlock smiled slowly. "Gracie, as you call her, is most certainly not gay. Her pupils dilated when the blonde officer brought Mr. _Cocks _in, and slightly when I told you I was charming. I suspect she lied to avoid sleeping with you - you are obviously what they call a _'_player' nowadays, are you not? - because she finds you repulsive."

My jaw had dropped. Jamie was looking from Sherlock to me, emotions flitting in and out of his expression at lightening speed. I shook my head and turned to Jamie, starting to protest - I needed to have a semblance of a professional relationship with the man, at least - when Sherlock started talking about.

"Her nostril's flare whenever you walk near. She kept glancing at you repeatedly throughout our interview. Her lip curls when you speak, and her jaw clenched when you entered the room. Not only do your sexual habits disgust her, you most likely remind her of her abusive father - it was your father, was it not? Your mother would have injured your face more - and she feels threatened by you. I am certain her reflexes are quite good, so I would refrain from touching her, if I were you."

We both gaped at him. _What the bloody hell -_

The door flew open. "Scout. Lestrade. Now," Gregson snapped from the doorway, a welcome interruption. He slammed the door behind us. "What the bloody hell happened in there?!"_  
_

* * *

**As always, feel free to review if you'd like! It really does make my day. Like seriously, someone followed the story yesterday, so I decided to write some more. Moral of the story: give love, get Mystrade love. Cuz that is coming up. Sometime. Somehow.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Hello, dearies! (Yes, I'm channeling my inner Rumpelstiltskin.)**

**So, I've given up any hope of maintaining an outline, because sometimes the characters just don't like being bossed around. Mycroft makes an appearance soon! Say hi to him for me? Maybe ask him if he'd be so kind as to grace us with his presence again?**

**Sidenote: I've been listening to December 1963 (Oh What a Night) by The Four Seasons like nonstop since watching S3E2. *Bashes brains out***

**Kidding. I actually love that song xD (It was perfect in the episode too, if you didn't know.) **

**Also, I know NOTHING about the British criminal justice scene, so bear with me, or feel free to PM me how stuff really works over there.**

* * *

"What the bloody hell was that?!"

Gregson, in all his red-faced, two-days-worth-of-simmering-wrath glory, stared us down, and neither of us knew what to say.

Jamie opened and closed his mouth like a fish, and I busied myself with switching my knife from the right boot to the left.

"You - your not gay?" He finally sputtered, and I stood up angrily.

"No, of course I'm not! But I don't see how that should be anyone's damn business but-"

"You could have told me!" he shouted indignantly. I snorted at that. "I wouldn't have minded -"

"Oh, sure! You wouldn't have _minded_?!"

"Well, it's better than _lying_ to me! We're supposed to be partners!"

"Yes, that's what I thought!"

"Partners don't lie to each other!" People started staring.

"Partners don't sexually harass each other their first bloody day at work!" _Oops. That was louder than I intended..._

"I didn't sexually harass you! I was being friendly!" He insisted.

"Oh yeah, your cock is very friend -"

"Enough!" Gregson shouted, stepping between us and holding up his hands. "This isn't _Dr. Phil_, dammit! If you want to talk about your bloody _feelings_, go see a bloody _therapist_! We are here to solve a murder!" He turned to the lobby of people staring. "And I'm sure you lot have something you are supposed to be doing! The show is over!"

He turned on his heel and strode into the observation room. Jamie and I looked at each other and ran after him. Gregson kicked the technician out and stared at Sherlock through the glass for a long time.

"Scout."

"Sir?"

"Tell me about America."

Jamie cleared his throat. "We are still waiting for the files to be faxed over, Sir -"

"Did we get a warrant for his personal effects yet?" Gregson interrupted.

"Erm - No, Sir." Jamie stammered. Gregson growled in response.

"And he won't sign the release?"

"No, Sir." Gregson clenched his fist.

"Are they still ignoring your calls, Sir?" I asked.

"Yeah. Dammit. What the _hell_ does this guy do that he can get away with spying on Scotland Yard like this -"

"Lestrade!" We all looked up. "Lestrade!" Sherlock was laying on the table. Cocks had disappeared, and Sherlock was actually calling for me.

* * *

"Bored." Sherlock informed me.

"Are you." I answered from the doorway.

"You can't keep me here much longer," he drawled, tossing a small hackysack up in the and catching it. Toss. Catch. Toss. Catch.

"You are a suspect in a murder -" Toss. Catch. Toss. Catch. Toss - I snatched it from the air and crossed my arms. "You are a suspect in a murder investigation."

"No." He sat up and crossed his legs, resting an elbow on each knee. "_You_ know I didn't do it. Besides, I've already told you who did. "

"You didn't, actually -"

"So this is unrelated, isn't it..."

I frowned. "I don't know what you are going on about. You are still a suspect. You are still hiding something."

He stared at the mirror behind me, lost in his mind somewhere.

"You should sign the release form, Mr. Holmes. You will be able to leave much sooner." He said nothing in return, so I stood up and walked to the door.

"What did you say?" he asked as my hand was on the handle. I frowned some more.

"You should sign the release form -"

"Sooner. I can leave sooner. If I sign the forms." He looked up at me, his face shining. "But not until I sign the forms. Meaning that you need something in my personal effects."

Jamie opened the door and handed me the release forms.

"Sign them, Mr. Holmes," I instructed, placing the papers in front of him.

"No."

I gaped. "Why-ever not?"

He held up a finger. "The British justice system is almost as corrupt as the American one -" another finger "The items on my phone are personal-"

"No one said anything about your phone in particular -"

"Of course you did." Another finger "I consider this a training exercise of the mind for you, since your mind is, metaphorically, a 16 year old in a 60 year old body."

"What the hell are you going on about? That doesn't even make -"

"Yes, it does. Your mind, Lestrade! Use it! Think!" He got up and paced about. "How can you contact Fatty without his phone number?" He turned to me, expectantly. I just frowned and shrugged. He heaved a long-suffering sigh. "His personal file! How daft can one ge-"

"He doesn't _have_ one," I snapped angrily. "We don't even know what he _does _yet!"

He raised a eyebrow mildly. "Then go do some research," he instructed, returning to lying on his table/bed.

"What? How?" He didn't answer. "Can't you just sign the forms?" Yes, I realize I sound like a child.

"No. Go."

* * *

We had to release him after 48 hours, due to no conclusive evidence and - Goodness, I'm boring myself. Let's skip to the second time I met Him.

I could only think of three forms of do-able disrespect: vandalism, smoking, or a picnic. But who wants to graffiti a mausoleum? and I don't smoke, so obviously the picnic was the best choice. I went all out - checkered blanket and everything.

Right. Too far ahead. Alright, ummm...

Right, we let Sherlock go. And all throughout the next week, I noticed that I was being followed by various black, government-issued cars and dark men in dark shades and dark suits. All very cliche, all very American Secret Service. Though probably not the American Secret Service. Not in London.

Mycroft still hadn't made contact, and none of the captain's politicians would call him back. Gregson decided that the whole ordeal was my fault, which pleased my "partner" to no end. As promised, Sherlock had emailed me with the information on the murder and supposed murderer, Kevin Bartz, the next day. I brought the guy in, and he confessed within half an hour, which just made Gregson more angry.

By the end of the week, I was really desperate. The freaky government dudes wouldn't leave me alone, and now security cameras were turning to follow me. I was getting quite upset, screaming at the cameras and chasing the black suits into their black cars. I knew I had to do something to make Him finally talk to me-

Gosh, I feel so dramatic. I lost it, ok? I was stressed because of Gregson and Jamie, and Sherlock texted me every hour ("THINK. -SH" "DON'T BE DAFT. -SH" "IT'S OBVIOUS. -SH"), and my mother was calling me from her beach house in Florida wondering why I hadn't returned any of her 19 (20) calls, and then I was all paranoid because of the super spy men. I was going crazy at an increasingly fast rate. In fact, my crazy was starting to outweigh my hot (...it's an American comedy show reference...), and I have red hair, so I get extra leeway in the crazy department.

I finally figured out what to do whilst in the shower.

Something big. Something drastic. What better than disrespecting his father's grave?

* * *

**MYCROFT'S COMING! Hopefully...**

**And yes, I know I said a few days, and it has been more than a few days, and I'm really sorry, I just wanted to make sure I could carry this on in the next chapter smoothly and everything. You know how I love a dramatic ending :D**


End file.
